


i'll never be your chosen one

by okayantigone



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic, Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Juvie-Era Andrew, M/M, Pre-Canon, Smoking, The path to homosexuality is paved with good intentions, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 13:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16087124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayantigone/pseuds/okayantigone
Summary: Sometimes Andrew lets himself remember Kavinsky's hollowed cheeks and burning eyes, the sweet suggestive curve of his mouth."Do you often feel like it?" the other boy had asked."Like what?"Kavinsky gifted him a slow, lazy smile, slashing across his face like a Glasgow grin. "Like being dangerous."Andrew regarded him carefully. "I am dangerous," he said at last.





	i'll never be your chosen one

**Author's Note:**

> i iiiiiiii saw a post on tumblr that pissed me the hell off, that was all about how andrew would beat kavinsky up, but lIKE 
> 
> kavinsky's line about consent is ENTIRELY about STEALING objects. Which yeah, stealing is bad and wrong, whatever, but you can't go around claim he's a rapist because he STEALS stuff from DREAMS , i mean come the fuck on.  
> Also, to that regard, a lot of y'all seem to ignore one of his OTHER lines on the topic of consent: "Some nights you just lie there and take it." (which is in reference to his nightmares). 
> 
> so LIKE. Idk. I think K & Andrew have a LOT in common: both of them are unpredicteable, violent gay disasters with murky, but definitely abusive pasts, struggling with alcohol and substances, they love fast cars, and they both don't really see a future for themselves/only really see value in their own existence in relation to others - Kavinsky, through his relationship with the pack and Ronan, and Andrew through the deals he makes. 
> 
> So this is my little foray into their interaction panning out - they're both about 13-14 in this, at the same juvenile detention center. Andrew is there because of the whole thing with Aaron and keeping him away from Drake. Kavinsky is here because he deliberately crashed the car with his father in the passenger seat, not that they could really prove it was deliberate. He was drunk when he was driving though. 
> 
> This is pre-canon, obviously. idk if I'll be adding any more chapters to it, we'll see

Juvie’s … an experience. Luther and Pig made sure he went to a better place than what he’d have gone to otherwise, without them advocating for him. It looks more like rich people rehab than a prison for troubled youths. Of course, Andrew’s idea of rich people rehab is only solidified in his mind by tv, and such. He’d never had a rich people anything. 

Well, except the Bentley. He’d wrapped that thing around a tree like it was nothing, and for the brief moment when his foot was on the accelerator, he thought “that must be what feeling happy is like”. He stayed in the car, with blood running slowly down his face when the cops came for him. 

Behind the tall white fence of the green yard, he’s the most free, the most safe he has ever been in his life. People leave him mostly alone, and he has a room to himself, even though there’s a bed on the other side, and the desk is set-up with books in a language he can’t recognize and awkwardly angular sketches of great winged monsters. 

Andrew commits them to memory, and doesn’t think too much about it. The roommate is a problem for a future Andrew, and Andrew-in-the-present has to figure out a way to keep Aaron as far the fuck away from Drake as he can. Keep himself away from Drake too. Away from everyone before the damage that is his existence can seep in, the toxicity and sickness thrumming in his veins affecting everyone around him as they usually do. 

He dreams that he is standing in a dark wood he has never seen before. A three-headed dragon, its scales white and effervescent opens its three jaws simultaneously. 

You aren’t safe here. 

That’s not fucking news, Andrew thinks forcefully and wills himself to wake up. 

He peers through the darkness of the room. The automatic clock reads 4:38 in the morning, and on the bed across the room sits a boy, lanky and skinny, his long limbs seemingly loose with either sleep of drugs. His eyes are big and set deep in his hollow, delicate-boned face, and they burn like two hot coals. 

They stare at each other across the room. 

“Did I wake you up?” the boy asks, finally. His voice is molasses-thick, accented heavy and pleasant. 

Andrew debates his answer. It was the dream lamia that woke him up. He settles on a non-answer. “People usually wake up when they’re being stared at.” 

The boy tilts his head to the side, eerily birdlike. The dim morning light plays along the hollows of his face. He looks like he’s been starved. Or like he’s gone through withdrawal. Andrew’s seen enough druggies to know the look of one. 

“I’m Joseph Kavinsky,” the boy says finally. “Joey, to my friends.” 

“I’m Andrew,” Andrew says. “Doe.” 

Kavinsky’s smile is slow and lazy as it spills over his face. He looks as though he operates on a permanent delay. Andrew wonders what the hell they’re drugging him with, and why. The itch of curiosity is odd and unfamiliar. Kavinsky has not made himself into a threat. Yet. 

“Curios.” Says Kavinsky, although wether he’s calling Andrew out on the naked question marks in his eyes, or remarking on his lack of family name is yet to be determined. 

He gifts Andrew with another slow lazy smile, lays back down in the bed and closes his eyes. Andrew studied the detail of his long lashes. Like a magic trick, one moment Kavinsky is awake, and the next he is asleep. 

Andrew turns his back to the wall, slides a hand under the pillow to finger the swiss army knife he managed to sneak in and closes his eyes. When he wakes up, Kavinsky is already gone, his bed left into an unmade mess. 

On Andrew’s desk, in his half of the room, which is as sharply bare as the face he presents to all the guards and caretakers, is a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. The cigarettes look brand new, shiny, the edges of the box are smooth. It doesn’t look like it’ sbeen smuggled in. It looks like it’s been just… freshly deposited on his desk as a gift. 

Maybe Kavinsky had been saving them to make friends. Andrew opens the box, takes two cigarettes out, and then hides the box behind the loose bit of wallpaper that hides a hole in the plaster of the wall on his half of the room. 

His curious roommate is in the yard, laying down on one of the tables, his eyes closed. He looks even paler in the bright light of the day, his face obscured behind a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses. Andrew meanders towards him with a slow step, and sits beside his head. 

“Got your present.” he says. “So what do you want?” 

One dark eyebrow raises. “Nothing.” 

“Bullshit.” 

Kavinsky sits up slowly. Gracelessly. “Maybe I want to make friends,” he offers. 

“Uh-huh. Pull the other one.” Andrew does not like to play games, unless he makes the rules. 

“They said you’re here because you took your neighbor’s Porsche for a joyride.” Kavinsky says finally. He speaks slowly, enunciating each word carefully. 

“Bentley,” Andrew corrects. 

“Any passengers?” Kavinsky lowers his sunglasses, and his oddly intense gaze is on Andrew again. So this is what he hopes to buy with the cigarettes. Andrew’s secrets. Well. Andrew can play that. For now. 

“No.” he says flatly. Then, after a moment. “Who said?” 

Kavinsky cracks a smile. It’s a thin, sharp thing. Violence curls in the single dimple that slices across his left cheek like a scar. “Rodrigo said.” 

“I’ll fucking gut him,” Andrew murmurs, more to himself. 

“Mm,” Kavinsky nods. “People need to mind their own business. Why’d you do it?” 

“You need to take your own advice,” Andrew shoots back. And then, because he can’t leave any openings for the other boy to crawl to, adds “Because I felt like it.” 

“Do you often feel like it?” Kavinsky asks. 

“Like what?” Andrew plays dumb for the moment. 

“Like being dangerous,” Kavinsky’s words are a near whisper. Andrew is keenly aware of the distance between them, the air heavy with the sunlight and the warmth Kavinsky radiates, almost feverish. 

He has a full mouth, his lips bloodless and dry, cracked in a few places. For the most absurd length of a second, Andrew has the thought of leaning in and licking the open wound of the other boy’s mouth, tasting his blood. The thought flashes in his mind, and then it’s gone, and he’s left hollowed by the suddenness of it. Oh, what to do, what do about it, indeed? 

He ponders Kavinsky’s question. It’s nothing like the careful questioning of the uninterested social worker who deems him too much trouble, or Luther’s thinly-veiled accusations, Cass’ teary pleading, and the bored facility psychiatrist. 

“I am dangerous,” he says, emphasizing heavily. It’s what everyone else says about him. Andrew-the-psychopath. The unbalanced, violent boy, bruises that come to him in fights that he must have somehow provoked.  
I am sick, is what he wants to say. I am a sickness. Instead, he licks his lips, returning Kavinsky’s burning gaze with equal intensity. 

“Are you?” 

Kavinsky considers him a moment longer. “Sometimes,” he says finally. There’s … a tone in his voice. Choked up, confessionary. “But some nights… I just lay back and take it.” 

He knows. Andrew thinks. And the thought sends a shiver of… something through him. This fight, he does start, his fist flying through the air, connecting with Kavinsky’s nose. He doesn’t even put his hands up to fight. Blood gushes over his pale skin. He looks like a vampire. 

“I’ll tell them I started it,” Kavinsky promises, wiping his face. Crimson smears the back of his hand, his scarred knuckles. “I think a broken nose might make me look manlier, don’t you?” 

Andrew is still relearning to control his breathing. 

That night, after Kavinski’s nose has been set, and Andrew has been severely reprimanded – he isn’t sure what lie Kavinsky admitted to, but the reprimand is where his punishment for the fight started and ended – they are back to the four white walls confining them in their room. Kavinsky’s fresh out of the shower, his hair still wet, and he’s just wearing his pajama bottoms, his torso white and cadaverous, the curve of his ribs, and each dip shadowed in the nightlight. 

Kavinsky turns to face him, smiling that same Glasgow-grin of his, and his voice is … intimate, when he says quietly, with no preamble “I believe you.” 

Andrew wants to punch him again. It must have shown on his face, because Kavinsky wisely steps back, turns around and sits at his desk. Andrew sleeps facing the room as usual, the sound of Kavinsky’s graphite pencils lulling him into semi-consciousness. 

He dreams of the Porsche’s lights flooding the road as the car skids down the bend of the turn and slams forcefully into the tree, and beside him the satisfying snap of bones when his father’s neck – No. That’s nor right. Andrew was alone in the car, and he drove a Bentley, and he doesn’t have a father, and - 

The three-headed lamia greets him, her white scales speckled with blood. “You are dangerous.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've enabled comment moderation on this, so don't even try me


End file.
